


Stravinsky

by rightsidethru



Series: Steter Week 2019 [1]
Category: Slavic Mythology & Folklore, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creature Stiles Stilinski, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Slash, Scandinavian Mythology & Folklore, Steter - Freeform, Steter Week, Steter Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Duke Orsino:If music be the food of love, play on,Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so die.Twelfth Night; Act 1, scene 1, 1–3





	Stravinsky

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick fic to try and get my writing muscles flexing again. Super short, but that's also because it was written during my lunch break. :D;;
> 
> First day for Steter Week 2019:  
July 29: Creature!Stiles and/or Accidental Bonding

Stiles tripped over a protruding root, breath gasping out as his arms windmilled through the air—steps stuttering as the teen attempted to keep his resulting cry silent, all the while knowing that in just a moment—two—he’d be crashing face-first into the packed earth of the river’s shore. The amber-eyed boy braced himself, one hand coming up to brace himself as much as possible in the remaining time allotted—

And claw-tipped fingers dig into the sharply winged arches of Stiles’ hipbones before dragging the boy down and under a cleverly hidden overhang.

He jerked his head to look over a shoulder, meeting a neon-blue gaze with his own wide eyes as he opened his mouth to speak—

And the dagger-like tips of Peter’s claws dug in deeper as footsteps thudded heavily along the overhang’s ceiling.

“_Shhhh_,” the ‘wolf breathed against the delicate furl of Stiles’ ear, and the teen’s eyes clamped shut.

The hunters all began to converge along the river’s edge, five then eight then eleven and finally fifteen in total: seasoned men who smelled the blood on the wind; darkly-flavored bloodlust was up and each of the rogue hunters had come to Beacon Hills with the intention of bagging one of the renowned members of the McCall Pack.

(Didn’t matter if it was the True Alpha that succumbed to first kill or the pack’s token human or the omega that still clung to the outskirts of the pack that didn’t want him: a kill was a kill in the rogues’ eyes, and it was just Stiles’ luck that he’d been spotted first. Typical, too, that Scott hadn’t bothered to pick up his phone—but that was paired with a certain sort of resigned acknowledgment that had been years in the making. Didn’t help Stiles _now_, though.)

The teen shifted in Peter’s hold and, slowly, the older man pulled his hands away from Stiles—watching the boy to ensure that he remained silent.

Not a sound slipped past the teen’s slightly parted lips, and Stiles continued watching the ceiling with a hawk’s gaze.

“Where’d the bastard go?”

“Tracks show he went this way—“

“Haven’t have gone far.”

Steps came closer to the edge of Peter and Stiles’ hiding spot, and the teen shifted closer to the ‘wolf, reaching out and digging his fingers into the meat of the older man’s thigh as the group of hunters made their way closer—closer—closer—

“_Fuck_,” Stiles breathed, word nothing more than an exhale. Peter’s gaze shot to the boy, met a whiskey-colored gaze, and the ‘wolf stiffened at the resignation that darkened his eyes. The teen shifted closer, grip tightening over Peter’s jeans until Stiles’ hold was strong enough o actually leave behind bruises. “Cover your ears, Peter. Don’t listen.”

“_Stiles_\--“

The boy slipped away, avoiding the ‘wolf’s eyes and dodging the almost-desperate way that Peter reached out towards him. Stiles darted out from beneath the overhang, drawing the hunters’ attention towards his racing form, and shouts followed in the teen’s wake as the men charged after him.

Peter snarled, fangs dropping and eyes flashing neon in the low light of his hidden cave: knowing that there was only one way that this chase would end and that, once more, he’d lose a packmate—the only one left—to the insatiable bloodlust of a rogue hunter.

And then:

Between one step and the next, the distinctive plaid that Stiles was rarely seen without faded away to shadow and moondust, leaving the boy in the elegant lines of an old-fashioned charcoal gray suit. Lines sharply defined in the low light of midnight, moon glow the only highlight gleaming amongst the Preserve: Stiles _breathed out_ and became _Fae_.

“_What_—“

Peter froze, eyes wide as he watched Stiles step out onto the surface of the water, each stride, each playfully dancing step that moved in time to music that only Stiles could yet hear: leaving behind ice and frost and a cold-kissed sort of death—

And the haunting song from a violin vibrated through the night.

(One by one, the hunters drowned.)

::end::

**Author's Note:**

> So I've made Claudia Stilinski a rusalka and a nighthag in previous stories: this one showed a brief hint of [nøkk](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neck_\(water_spirit\)?wprov=sfti1) Stiles Stilinski. ;)


End file.
